


Bespoke

by inlovewithnight



Category: Project Runway (US) RPF
Genre: Complicated Emotions, Dominance and Submission, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Porn Battle XV, prompts "curls" and "perfect."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bespoke

Tim has seen enough of Zac’s work, and spent enough time with Zac himself, to know that he believes in precision and order. Perfection and polish. Never a crooked seam, never a missed stitch, never a hair out of place. Zac is starched and pressed. Zac is waistcoats for a walk to the bodega, for goodness’ sake.

It adds a great deal of thrill to the prospect of mussing him up.

Zac rises up on his tiptoes and Tim pushes him down again, careful but firm, his hand on the back of Zac’s neck just high enough for Zac’s curls to brush against his fingers. 

“Behave,” he admonishes gently. “Be patient.”

Zac huffs in frustration and Tim waits, raising an eyebrow at him until he lowers his eyes and some of the tension goes out of his body under Tim’s hand. 

Tim runs his thumb up and down over the bumps of vertebrae, drawing out the moment until Zac exhales roughly. “Good,” Tim says, drawing his hand up to the back of Zac’s head and tangling his fingers in Zac’s hair. “Be a good boy.”

They talked about this, before, at length and in detail. They spent hours that Tim recalls well, sitting in Zac’s condo drinking tea and talking, Zac with his legs curled under him at one end of the couch, Tim striving to keep good posture and equilibrium in an antique wing chair with an inch of dachshund hair on the upholstery.

He can remember Zac’s wide eyes and flushed skin, the delicate tone of embarrassment and the slight hitch in his voice that went with it, when Zac told him that it might be a terrible cliché for a wunderkind grown up, but he desperately craved to hear that he’d done well.

“I’m a slut for praise,” he’d said, scrunching his nose, and Tim had placed his cup of tea aside and folded his hands over his knee.

“The first thing you can do well is not use that word,” he’d said.

Zac looks much the same now, actually; eyes wide, lips parted, skin flushed, though with anticipation rather than embarrassment. Tim gives him a warning look and tugs lightly at his hair, letting the dark curls twine around his fingers.

Zac resists the first tug and melts into the second, leaning his body toward Tim’s. Tim breathes out slowly and continues drawing him in, guiding him with tugs of his fingers and pressure from his palm until Zac’s forehead rested against Tim’s stomach and his breath was warm against the fly of Tim’s trousers.

This is a point of control, for both of them. Precision and waiting, holding their place. Tim makes himself breathe slowly and carefully, looking down at Zac, maintaining the precise tension of his hand against him. 

Zac is good, he’s so good. He holds his pose perfectly, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, each breath deep and warm but not frantic. There’s nothing messy about him except his hair, broken from its neat coif. 

“Good,” Tim says, his voice rougher than he intended. Zac looks up, meeting Tim’s eyes through his lashes.

Tim waits another moment; no, less than that, another heartbeat, just enough to make the point to himself, as much as Zac, that he’s in charge. Then he nods, a fraction of a motion, and Zac sighs in glad relief.

He slides his hands up Tim’s thighs, gentle and quick. Now Tim is only measuring his own control, minding his breath and the stillness of his body while Zac caresses the fabric of his trousers and teases his fingers across to the button at the fly.

Quality tailoring, fine craftsmanship; Tim suspects Zac is admiring that as much or more as he’s thinking of Tim’s body below. The trousers are, perhaps, the entirety of the sensual experience here. So he tells himself, while he holds his composure and waits.

Button and zipper slipped, Zac’s hands become even more gentle, guiding the trousers open and off Tim’s hips. He breathes against the hair on Tim’s belly, and plants a kiss above the band of his briefs, and Tim denies himself the urge to flinch or make a face, to push Zac away and deny him his choice of what to admire. 

This is a mutual dance, and as much as Zac must do as he’s told and mind the rules, Tim must mind his manners and let Zac worship as he chooses. Even if it’s embarrassing. Zac insisted on that.

“I like you,” he’d said, so earnestly, reaching across the space between couch and chair to touch Tim’s knee. “ _You_ , all of you, I want to see you, I want to touch you. I want to. I swear. Let me?”

Now Zac’s deft fingers are pulling Tim’s briefs away, and Tim breathes against the old surge of panic and loathing, the surety that his body will fail, again, to be of any use or pleasure to his partner. It doesn’t get easier, but it’s become more familiar, Zac’s touch and his body’s response. 

The sounds Zac makes, low murmurs and hums of pleasure, those are becoming more familiar, too, very nearly to the point he might believe that Zac means them.

Zac takes him in his mouth, wet and gentle, and Tim closes his eyes. He always does, always; after the first time, Zac had told him in a throaty, giddy whisper that he’d watched Tim’s face the entire time, looking up at him in wonder, and now Tim can’t bear to look, just in case Zac isn’t looking anymore.

The foolish fears of the old, he supposes. Or the cracked very deeply inside, old cracks that won’t fully mend however gently Zac guides him in piecing them together.

He’s found that the pieces are still all _there_ , though. That was more than he ever thought might be possible.

Zac’s tongue flicks lazily against his cock, the rush of sensation bringing a moan to Tim’s throat. He fights that, too, strives to push it away before he remembers Zac’s assurances that he loves to hear Tim make noise, that it makes him feel good—not just in the sense of pleasure of his own, but in the sense of _being_ good, a good boy, his personal embarrassment, his cliché.

And Tim so badly wants to give his lovely young man that, wants to give him the things that make him light and glow. 

So, for Zac’s sake, he moans, he shivers, he lets his voice break when it will. Zac’s hands slide over his thighs, settle on his hips, brush against his stomach, and for a moment Tim forgets that he’s old, forgets that he’s afraid, forgets that he’s restrained and damaged and every other word he’s learned to raise as a shield to himself. He lets Zac have his pleasure, that feeds back into his own.

His heart races, he shakes, and with another rough breath and broken moan he spills himself in Zac’s mouth.

Zac pulls away slowly, licking his lips with deliberate slowness, a smacking noise that Tim can’t mistake for anything else. He opens his eyes, blinking away the incidental tears from the corners, and tugs Zac’s hair again. “You know that’s an awful sound.”

“Can’t help it.” Zac rests his forehead against Tim’s thigh, just the corner of his smirk visible as Tim looks down. “Thank you.”

“Hush,” Tim says quietly, and Zac rubs his face against him and subsides, falling back into his patient limbo of waiting.

Tim releases his grip on Zac’s curls and pets him instead, slow careful strokes of his fingers. “So good,” he says, his voice hardly above a whisper. “Lovely boy.”

It isn’t perfect, not by far. He can hardly think of this as art. But they’re creating something, surely, hand in hand.


End file.
